


A Different Kind (of Bruise)

by startrex



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Attraction, Confessions, Getting Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Making Out, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:15:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26063311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startrex/pseuds/startrex
Summary: After yet another mission goes wrong, Spock and Jim spend a night in the medbay. Their whispered conversation reveals that they share a secret.*“Come here.”Spock blinks. “You do still need your rest—”“Spock. If I don’t get to touch you after the conversation we just had, I’m not going to be able to rest. So, I need you to come here. That’s an order.”
Relationships: James T. Kirk/Spock
Comments: 11
Kudos: 398





	A Different Kind (of Bruise)

Exhaustion hits him the moment that he and the Captain are safe on the ship. 

It’s been building up over the past two non-stop days, pushed to the side in an effort to focus on the much more important job of keeping them both alive, but now that they are home and amongst friends rather than enemies, Spock can no longer ignore the itch behind his eyelids or the heaviness of his limbs. There’s blood—mostly red, but a substantial amount of green—coating his chest. The Captain is covered in purple bruises. They step off the transporter in unison but where Spock manages, if only barely, to keep his balance, the Captain sways forward into Doctor McCoy’s waiting arms. 

He sends a scathing look in Spock’s direction. “Don’t think I don’t know you’re in just as bad shape. Get on the stretcher.” 

Spock doesn’t protest. He hadn’t even seen the stretchers waiting for them and that lapse in his cognitive abilities is more than enough to convince him of the necessity of medical attention. Doctor McCoy loads the Captain onto another stretcher and a veritable collection of crewman set about carrying them down to the medbay. Unlike the Captain, Spock is awake enough to answer the good doctor’s rapid-fire questions. 

“Have either of you eaten?” 

“Not in the last thirty-six hours.” 

Doctor McCoy curses. “And sleep?” 

Spock answers that there hasn’t been time to stop and rest. The planet was supposed to be uninhabited. This has been a reoccurring problem in their lives for the past year. He’s been debating writing a scathing letter to the Federation for their ineptitude and prejudice in assuming that any planet outside of their borders can’t possibly contain intelligent life. This experience, although not the most deadly they’ve been through, might be the one that pushes him to finally do it. He closes his eyes but a medic shakes him away. 

“Sorry, Spock,” Doctor McCoy says apologetically. “We’ll need to get you hooked up to the nutrients and supplements before I can let you enter your healing trance. We’ll be in medbay soon, promise.” 

“It was not…I simply wish to sleep.” 

If Spock were functioning on higher levels, he’d be much more concerned by the alarmed look on Doctor McCoy’s face. “Worse than I thought,” the doctor mutters, and the crewmen pick up their paces. 

The medbay is a flurry of activity as they hook Spock and the Captain up to a plethora of various machines, apply hypos, run tricorders frantically over them. Spock can barely process any of it. He’s just grateful that they haven’t moved the Captain terribly far away and that, when he turns his head he can see him, looking pale as a ghost but breathing and alive. Spock watches his Captain’s chest rise and fall even as the doctor tells him he is not allowed to sleep, but must enter a healing trance. 

“And,” he says, patting one of the machines. “We can tell the difference.” 

The trance is a welcome relief. Spock allows it to restore him bit by bit. He wasn’t as grievously injured as he has been on missions past, but the trance, once combined with the hypos feeding him nutrients, will be the fastest and most sure way of restoring him to health. His physiology, as Doctor McCoy loves to remind him, is incredibly unique and they like to, where possible, stick with what they know works rather than risk experimentation. The few times that Spock has needed to be operated on had been stressful experiences for all of the medical professionals involved. He lets the trance claim him. 

When he’s healed enough to lift out of it, the medbay has gone dark. The Captain is still on the bed next to him, breathing steadily. The slash across his head has been closed, padded over with a bandage while they wait for the skin cells to regenerate. In the semi-darkness of the room (lit only by blinking machinery and the orange light of the room next door, where the on-duty staff sit in wait), the bruises colouring his neck look like strange, inhuman shadows that twist when he swallows. 

“I can feel you staring,” the Captain whispers. 

Spock is grateful for humans difficulty seeing in low-light as he’s sure he’s flushing at being caught. “My apologies. I did not realise you were awake.” 

The Captain’s mouth twitches. “But know that you do, you still haven’t looked away.” 

There are many responses that jump to the forefront of Spock’s mind. He could say, _You are beautiful_ or _every time you are hurt I feel it in my own soul_ or _I am afraid that you fade away if I am not looking_. He settles on, “I am relieved to see you in good health.” 

The Captain blinks his eyes open and glances over at Spock, a closed smile playing across his lips. He stretches his neck as he does so, revealing even more of the dark bruises that trail down beneath the collar of his shirt. Spock swallows. “Do they hurt?” he asks without meaning to. 

It takes a moment, but the Captain lets out a breathy laugh. “Nah. I mean, I’d rather my neck was covered in a different kind of much-more-fun bruises, but these don’t hurt. Bones had to sort my head out first, of course, but tomorrow he’ll get rid of the bruises and I’ll be back to my normal self.” 

Spock allows himself one moment to imagine himself decorating the Captain’s neck and collarbones and chest with those ‘more fun’ bruises, to imagine touching the Captain’s skin underneath his shirts without it being from necessity or danger. Would he enjoy the feel of Spock’s fingers ghosting over his hips or would he prefer to be held down? What noises would he make when the touch was meant to be pleasurable rather than torturous? 

“What about you?” 

“What?” 

The Captain smirks as though fully aware of where Spock’s thoughts had taken him and, though he knows it’s impossible, Spock flushes at the idea of it anyway. 

“Are you in pain?” the Captain clarifies. 

“No,” he answers. “If I were not sure that Doctor McCoy would be most displeased, I could leave now.” 

“Aw, you’d leave me all alone? I thought we were friends.” 

“No,” Spock says immediately. “I would not leave you. You are my friend.” 

There’s silence for a stretch. Then the Captain says, “Then why don’t you call me by my name?” 

Spock feels weighted down by the question. _Because the familiarity of it might ruin me_ , he thinks, _because I can remain detached if I don’t_. Then, in an especially human part of his mind, adds, _because reminding myself of your authority over me gets me hot_. 

He feels shamefaced for even thinking it but he knows it’s true. When he says Captain and the Captain looks at him, there’s always a split second flare of desire, hot and unyielding in his navel. The other answers are true too; if he refers to the Captain by his name and admits that there is a friendship between them, his fantasies become more personal and all the more dangerous. He does imagine it, sometimes, starting with Captain to draw his attention, being pressed up against the table in the ready room, doors locked. The Captain guiding Spock’s face and hands and body, reminding him unashamedly who he belongs to, and then Spock breathing out Jim and hearing the Captain’s breath stutter as they fall apart together. 

These fantasies always end with Spock laying stock still in his bed, breaths shallow, his quarters (normally a perfectly balanced temperature) feeling too warm and stuffy. When his thoughts stray away from physicality and into emotional territories, that’s when he’s in real trouble. No, better to keep his distance. Better to remain formal, with the bare flashes of attraction that are easy enough to ignore.

The Captain is still waiting for an answer, turning his eyes imploringly on Spock, who suddenly finds the combination of their soft voices and the low-light and the bruises on his neck almost too much to bear. His mouth is dry. He says, “You are my Captain.” 

“And we’re off duty.” 

The darkness, for all Spock is able to see in it, is oppressive in the way it surrounds them. It’s not an unfamiliar conversation but it’s certainly an unfamiliar circumstance. Despite the feet between them, the separate beds they’re in, it feels remarkably like ‘pillow talk’. Spock looks at the bruises on his Captain’s neck and imagines that he had put them there, blossoming pinkish-red instead of purple, bought forth with gasps of pleasure rather than hisses of pain. Imagines that this is a conversation happening after a clandestine meeting. To borrow a human metaphor, he is veering into very dangerous waters, but looking at the Captain sharp eyes in the dark, he finds that he wants to take the plunge. 

The Captain turns his head back up to the ceiling. “I’m just saying that you could. You don’t need to be formal with me all the time.” 

Spock’s heart is pounding. He says, “ _Jim_.” 

It’s softer, quieter than anything else he’s said in this conversation but it carries anyway. Spock watches as the Captain’s eyes slide shut and his throat bobs with the force of his swallow. “Say it again.” 

Emboldened, Spock drags out the syllable. “ _Jim_.”

The Captain’s eyes fly back open, his breaths suddenly shorter. “Maybe-maybe don’t say it again.” 

Spock’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. “Why not?” 

“I didn’t know what it would do to me,” the Captain confesses, pointedly refusing to look in Spock’s direction. “God, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be—”

“What does it do to you?” Spock asks, failing to keep his voice fully level. 

The Captain’s eyes dart to him and then away. Spock watches him swipe his tongue over his lips and wonders if he is having the same internal debate Spock was, about crossing lines and dangerous questions. If he is, he turns out much brave than Spock and he answers, “The things I imagine doing to you, Spock. Calling you to my ready room and kissing you until your lips are swollen and you’re begging for me, and then sending you on shift where you have to act unbothered. I think you could do it, too. I imagine taking you to bed and teasing you until you’re shaking, taking you apart piece by piece. Spock, I want to fuck you until you forget all about titles, until you forget about Starfleet or the Federation and the only thing you can bring yourself to say is my name.” 

Spock’s heart is pounding at the confession, erratic and hopeful. He whispers, “ _Jim_.” 

The Captain brings his hands to his face. “I’m dreaming,” he says. “This is the meds. I did not wake up in the middle of the night and say that to my subordinate.” 

If only the Captain—if only Jim knew how much worse hearing that made it for Spock. He tries and fails again to keep his voice level as he says, “It is not against regulation for a Captain to take up with a subordinate who is-who is less than two ranks below them.”

“You’ve looked this up.” 

“Yes.” 

Jim laughs faintly, eyes shining in the low light. “Because of me?” 

“Because of you.” 

“What do you want from me, Spock?” Jim asks, voice hoarse. “Do you want me?” 

“I have only ever wanted you,” Spock confesses. “I have tried to keep my distance, to remain courteous and professional. But…even when I call you Captain, I can’t help but imagine you commanding me to my knees.” 

Jim’s breath catches and when he speaks again, the tease comes out shakily. “Kinky, aren’t you?” 

“Only for you,” Spock says, which is only partially a lie. “I would do anything you asked.” 

“Come here.” 

Spock blinks. “You do still need your rest—”

“Spock. If I don’t get to touch you after the conversation we just had, I’m not going to be able to rest. I can’t lie to Bones when he asks if I stayed in bed all night, but he can never tell with you. So, I need you to come here.” He adds, with a faux-casual air that belays his interest, “That’s an order.” 

Spock is helpless against it. He slides out of the bed and pads softly over to Jim’s, wary of the on-duty medical staff just beyond the door. Jim reaches for him as soon as he’s close enough to touch, wrapping his fingers loosely around Spock’s wrist and beaming immediately at the contact. “You’re _real_ ,” he says, near jubilantly. “You’re really real.” 

Jim shifts so there’s just enough space for Spock to slide in next to him and Spock does so at the mere suggestion. Jim’s fingers release his wrist and ghost up his arm, across his chest, along his neck and stop at his jaw, an achingly gentle pressure as he tilts it up. Spock’s lips part of their own accord, a desperate, needy sound escaping them. Jim’s eyes flit all over Spock’s face as though to confirm, once again, that this is something they both absolutely want. 

Then he leans forward and kisses Spock’s open mouth. The dam breaks. 

Spock’s moan is thankfully muffled, swallowed up the kiss, but Jim pulls back just enough to whisper ‘shh’ anyway. He nods hurriedly and Jim, smirking, resumes kissing languidly into Spock’s mouth with a gentle swipe of his tongue over Spock’s bottom lip. His hand remains on Spock’s jaw with his fingers teasing back and forth even as he depends the kiss further and further, slow and tantalising and everything Spock’s fantasies could’ve dreamed. He feels like he’s drowning and he doesn’t even mind. He would go gladly if it meant that Jim would kiss him until his last breath. 

He sneaks a hand forward to slide underneath Jim’s shirt, brushing his fingers over his hips. Jim jolts forward at the contact, grinning into the kiss and pressing a leg between Spock’s, pulling them closer into each other. “I can’t wait to ruin you,” he mutters, barely pulling away. He slides his hand down Spock’s neck with gentle pressure and then fists a handful of his shirt to pull him even closer. “Ruin you for anyone else, so you can only ever be mine.” 

“I am already ruined,” Spock promises, allowing himself to be pulled to hover over Jim, forearms bracing him against the bed. “I’m already yours.” 

“Did you just use a contraction?” Jim teases, leaning up for another heady kiss. “Look what I do to you.” Spock whimpers as Jim’s hands tangle in his hair, mussing it beyond salvation. Jim pulls them together again, hot and sweet and beyond anything Spock might’ve imagined and he lets himself get swept into it, enjoying the game of keeping quiet and the pleasure of every sensation. 

If in the morning, some of the bruises on Jim’s neck are pinkish-red instead of purple-blue, then neither of them are in any hurry to point it out.

**Author's Note:**

> I can honestly say that I have never written anything like this before. I do hope you have enjoyed it regardless. Thank you for reading.


End file.
